


Limited Edition

by sarcasticsra



Series: Toy Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John and Greg are totally having those club meetings, M/M, Sherlock doesn't want to share his toys, but what else is a big brother for?, it's probably actually more like a support group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock figures it out, of course. Greg isn't surprised by <i>that</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limited Edition

**Author's Note:**

> I like how I haven't written anything in ages and then this just...happened. Idek, brain. Thanks for looking it over, Geena!

It surprised Greg how long it actually took for Sherlock to put it together.

Obviously he knew he was going to. That was a given. And it wasn’t as though it took _long_ , really—just three days. But for Sherlock, three days was practically an eternity. He figured it had to have mostly to do with the fact that no one liked to think about their siblings having any form of sex life.

And, to be fair, the first day, Sherlock definitely noticed _something_ , because there was no mistaking that piercing grey-eyed stare, the one that meant he was leafing through his life story like anyone else might leaf through a picture book. He just didn’t follow it up with his usual ruthlessly accurate deconstruction of Greg’s entire existence, so Greg had to wonder if maybe he was trying _not_ to put it together.

And then the second day they didn’t see each other, so it probably wasn’t actually fair to count it. If they had, it probably would have been then.

But that still left the third day, when Greg turned up at Baker Street to deliver some backlogged paperwork that he absolutely was not filling out by himself, thank you very much. The second he walked into the apartment, Sherlock’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowed, and he said, “ _No_.”

It sounded less like a declaration than he probably meant, Greg noticed. He was a little too horrified for that.

“No!” he repeated, standing in a flourish of movement. “No, no, no, _no_!”

John, who was sitting in his chair, looked quizzical. “Sherlock…”

“No! Tell him no, John!”

John turned that quizzical look on him. “Do you have any clue what he’s on about, or…”

“He knows,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing again, before Greg could get a word in edgewise. “Oh, he _knows_.” He pulled out his mobile and sent off a text in a flurry of fast-moving fingers. A moment later, Greg’s own mobile chimed, indicating a text—though Sherlock’s did not. Greg had a pretty good idea about what the message said, but he checked anyway, and sure enough:

_I’m on my way. –MH_

“Oh, of course he responds to _you_!” Sherlock said. “This is—no. Not allowed, absolutely not allowed, unacceptable.”

John glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Anyone care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Sherlock thinks he knows something,” Greg said, after a second of thought.

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t think it! It’s _obvious_. It’s written all over you. God, it’s almost like you’re rubbing it in my face.”

“Then why’d it take you three days to figure it out?” Greg asked. He was more curious than anything, but somehow the question came out sounding like a challenge. Sherlock caused more weird side effects than the drugs they showed commercials for on the telly.

“There are some things I prefer not to think about,” Sherlock said, disgusted. “Though it’s hardly possible to ignore when he’s apparently seen fit to scent-mark you like an animal. His shampoo _and_ his cologne, Lestrade?”

“Uh,” said John.

“He’s sleeping with Mycroft, John, honestly!” Sherlock snapped, and then immediately looked like saying it out loud was about to make him ill.

“What,” said John. This time the look he gave Greg was both wary and concerned, the kind of look you gave a person who you thought might have lost his mind and could be a danger to himself or others.

Greg didn’t say a word, just pointedly looked at Sherlock and then back to him, raising an eyebrow. 

John made a face but conceded his point with a nod. “I guess…congratulations?”

“Why are you congratulating him?” Sherlock demanded. “You’re a doctor! Ask him if he’s come into contact with any mind-altering chemicals recently.”

“You flatter me, brother mine,” said Mycroft suddenly, from the doorway.

Greg jumped a little. John didn’t, but Greg saw the brief flash of surprise in his eyes before his head turned. Only Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash.

“I knew you were there,” he said.

“Of course.” Mycroft stepped into the room. “Are you quite finished bothering Gregory with your histrionics?”

Sherlock scowled at his brother. “You can’t have him! Go find someone else to play with. He’ll be of no use to me if you break him!”

“Oi,” said Greg. “What am I, an action figure?”

“DI Gregory Lestrade, limited edition, near mint, a little wear and tear,” John said quietly, laughing to himself. Greg gave him a look, and John just shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I’m part of the set.”

Greg rolled his eyes. 

“You’re behaving, quite literally, like a child,” Mycroft told Sherlock, his eyes flicking briefly to Greg; Greg was sure that half-second glance was enough for him to deduce everything about his mood, current level of irritation with Sherlock, at least 80% of what he was thinking, and probably where he wanted to get lunch in a bit.

It just went to show how weird his life had gotten, because the only part of that he was wondering about was lunch. Maybe Mycroft could spare an hour. There was a new Mongolian place near the Yard that he’d been meaning to try. He tried to ask him about it with a look.

“Oh, just stop it!” Sherlock said, whirling on him. “Must you be so tediously transparent? You can’t trust him. You _must_ know that. Even you’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise, Lestrade.”

“Oh, will you just—” He stopped, catching a look from John. He was looking pointedly between the two brothers, and it took him a second to realize what he meant. Greg blinked. “Oh. You’re right,” he said to John. “Huh.”

Both Mycroft and Sherlock looked, for the briefest of moments, utterly baffled. It was kind of a nice change of pace, Greg had to admit. He and John exchanged grins.

“Look, Sherlock, I know you’re worried, but it’ll be fine. Mycroft and I are adults. If it doesn’t work out, well—that’s life, sometimes that happens. But we’re both still going to be around. Lord knows I couldn’t get rid of you now even if I tried.”

“I—I am not _worried_!” Sherlock spluttered indignantly. “I simply feel that the population of London is sufficiently sizeable for the two of you to find perfectly suitable replacements to sate whatever base desires you so desperately need to waste your time concerning yourselves with!”

“Damn, that was a long-winded way of saying ‘go have sex with someone else,’” Greg said cheerily. He couldn’t help it; now that he knew where this tantrum was coming from, it was just _funny_. “I don’t want to, though. I’m content with what I’ve got.”

Sherlock tried his level best to murder him with a glare. Impervious after years of working with him, Greg just grinned and turned to Mycroft. “Got an hour to spare for lunch?”

“I should be able to arrange it.” He pulled out his mobile and tapped out a quick message. “That Mongolian place near the Yard?”

“One of these days, I’m going to seriously think about the fact that I find that a lot less creepy than I should,” Greg declared.

John snorted. “Welcome to the club, mate. We’ve got caps.”

“Meetings held at the pub, I suppose?”

“Every Friday.”

Greg laughed. He glanced over at Sherlock and Mycroft, who were obviously having a very intense, silent discussion solely with the power of their minds. He waited patiently for them to wrap it up before he said, “Ready to go, Mycroft?”

“Certainly. After you.” He gestured with his ever-present umbrella.

“If you find yourself mysteriously deported to a small South American country, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Sherlock called after them.

“That’s sweet, Sherlock—I’d miss you too!” he called back, and couldn’t help but laugh at the loud thud he heard in response, clearly the result of something being thrown at the wall.

“Well,” said Mycroft, once they were on the street. “I’d say that went rather well, wouldn’t you?”

“Not one explosion,” Greg agreed, tugging him in by the tie for a quick kiss. When they broke apart, Mycroft actually allowed himself to look startled—and pleased. Greg smiled. “Let’s get out of here before he drops a flowerpot on our heads.”

“That’s what the umbrella is for,” Mycroft said dryly, and Greg laughed as they walked toward the approaching black sedan.


End file.
